The Cryptic Conspiracy
by abigail-in-space
Summary: Before the schism, Lemony and Beatrice join forces to put a stop to a plot against R., the future Duchess of Winnipeg.
1. chapter 1

Only two streets over from the house where a close relative of yours used to live, there is a bookstore called Pi's Pages. It is a small bookstore with only two incommodious, a word which here means "very difficult to move about in", stories, and it sells only books about mathematics, sailing, and bengal tigers. The shopkeeper was an equally small man by the name of Archimedes Syracuse whose lifeless, gray eyes were only rivaled by his tired, gray face.

Not long after the Duchess of Winnipeg's birthday, a man who was dressed normally (with the exception of glasses he did not need) found himself in the diner across the street from Pi's Pages with a slice of pineapple pie that was particularly pitiable. Anyone who was paying close enough attention to him might have noticed that he was looking dead ahead, a phrase meaning "his eyes were so unmoving they might as well have belonged to a corpse", at the tiny bookstore and the tiny man who kept it. Anyone observing this might have found this peculiar as the diner was far more spacious, colorful, and cheerful than the man's subject of interest. Yet, it is not polite to question a person's interests unless that interest is harmful to another person; and, as interest in dusty bookstores is not usually harmful, the man was left staring without interruption until his waitress interrupted.

"I didn't realize this was a sad occasion," the blonde waitress without glasses said as she picked up the man's plate of half-eaten pie.

The man took a deep breath and gave the waitress a small smile. "The world is quiet here," he answered. "Solace is a thing so rarely found, so silence must take its place."

The woman nodded. "But where might it be even quieter?" she mused.

"I've been looking dead ahead at that tiny bookstore," the man answered. "It seems incommodious, but it may serve my purposes."

The waitress quirked an eyebrow. "Especially if you are looking for information on mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers," she said. "I may need information of that sort in ten minutes or less."

The man stood and paid for his dessert, tipping the waitress generously. "I find that I need information of that sort this very moment."

With those words, the man left and crossed the street to the bookstore. Mr. Syracuse was asleep behind the front desk and a stack of books was near the stairs. The man, who you ought to know by now has a name as most people do, sat on the bottom step and began to read. Yet, for all of his efforts Lemony Snicket could not focus on the book in his hands. For one thing, the book was on advanced calculus, a difficult subject that very few find interesting. For another, the thought of seeing the waitress again occupied his every thought. His eyes barely skimmed the sentences as though each word was a piece of a single paragraph so long that he could not be bothered to attempt comprehending it. In that sense, it felt quite similar to the paragraph you are reading right now. Having given up on the book as I am sure you have given up on this paragraph, he looked around the aging shop and worried if it was at all adequate, a word which here means "fit to meet a very dear friend in after not seeing her for a very long time."

Before he had time to think thrice about the decision to meet, the waitress entered Pi's Pages. She was still blonde and still not wearing glasses, but she had changed into a powder blue, button-up dress and comfortable brown shoes. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting," she said as she pulled off her blonde wig, revealing dark locks that flowed only a little ways past her shoulders. "And if I did, I hope you don't mind."

She had. He didn't.

"It's good to see you again, B.," Lemony said.

"Beatrice," she corrected him. "We've known each other long enough for you to call me Beatrice."

Lemony nodded. "Beatrice..." he echoed in barely more than a whisper.

Beatrice scanned the shop, placing her hands on her hips. "Well, why am I here, Lemony?" she questioned.

Clearing his throat, Lemony put down the book he was still clutching onto and stood. "I've received a message from an associate of mine that R. is in danger from a certain man with a beard but no hair."

Beatrice widened her eyes. "I've received a similar message about a woman with hair but no beard. I didn't take it seriously at the time as I had it from a Virginian Wolfsnake that someone had mysteriously given a typewriter to."

A seed of dread planted itself in Lemony's stomach, a feat that most seeds cannot accomplish. "We mustn't let any harm befall her. As you know, she is the last living heir of the Winnipeg estate, and that must not fall into the wrong hands."

With a curt nod, Beatrice picked up a book that was sitting on a table in the center of the room and dusted it off. "But you still haven't told me what we're doing in this bookstore."

"I'm hoping that we will be able to intercept a message from a conspirator against R.. If my informant is correct, there has been a code placed in a work of fiction by author Brutus Noble. This work of fiction will have nothing to do with either mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers."

Beatrice shook her head. "So, we're looking for a needle in a haystack..."

"A hackneyed phrase," Lemony remarked.

"But useful for when one wishes to express frustration with or put off trying to find something that is very difficult to find." As she started up the steep stairs to the second floor, Beatrice turned back. "I'm glad to see you, too, Lemony. I only wish we were meeting under more pleasant circumstances."

There has been no shortage of times when two people wished they were meeting under more pleasant circumstances. A person involved in a motor accident wished they could meet their insurance agent under more pleasant circumstances. A student who has behaved badly wished they could meet their principal under more pleasant circumstances. Marie Antoinette no doubt wished she could have met her executioner under more pleasant circumstances. However, unlike a motorcyclist and an agent, a student and a principal, or the queen of France and an executioner, Lemony Snicket and Beatrice were unlikely to ever meet under pleasant circumstances. They hadn't been meeting under pleasant circumstances since Lemony had bought Beatrice a rootbeer float to apologize for embarrassing her in front of her classmates, and they were unlikely to start doing so in the future.

It took the volunteers some time to locate the fictional section in the store as it was not organized by the Dewey Decimal system or seemingly any system at all. In a far corner, closest to the books even those interested in calculus would find dull, works of fiction began and stretched over three shelves, each full in both front and back.

"I never knew there could be so many stories about mathematics, sailing, and/or bengal tigers," Beatrice said as she saw it.

Lemony looked at the collection with equal surprise. "This world is but a canvas to our imagination," Lemony replied finally.

"I'm afraid I'll be able to do only a very little bit of reading," Beatrice sighed. "I accidentally left my glasses at R.'s home after her mother's birthday party and haven't been back to retrieve them."

"I thought you might have," Lemony said as he offered her a little smile and took the glasses off his own head. "These match your prescription if I'm not mistaken."

After trying the glasses on, Beatrice nodded. "Yes, but just how you know that is beyond me."

Lemony bit his lip anxiously. "You left those at my home the last time you were there."

Beatrice laughed, and it sounded like music. "Of course, I must have. How kind of you to save them for me."

Yes, he had saved them. It might have been that some small part of him had hoped she would return for them. It may have also been that if he looked at them long enough, he could imagine he saw her sparkling, intelligent, blue eyes behind them. Yet, in any case, it was time to let them go and return them to their rightful owner.

Together, they began to pull books written by Brutus Noble off the shelves ten at a time and set them on a table next to the railing. From there, they could see the entire bookstore, including Mr. Syracuse who they both decided may-or-may-not have been actually sleeping.

Once they had collected each of the one-hundred books they needed, Lemony unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. "Mr. Noble has certainly had time to write as much as he chooses," he said. "I'm not confident I could write more than ten books without wailing in agony."

Beatrice bit her lower lip and nodded. "I'm sure I'd die after writing just one."

They were both silent a moment, until Beatrice spoke up again. "Now," she began. "Bertrand says that one can always rely on the process of elimination."

The process of elimination, as you know, is a process most commonly used by detectives to solve murders, fires, and other such things that detectives investigate. However, it is also possible to use it for other things. For instance, if one is trying to determine who created a self-portrait, one could first eliminate artists who did not paint self-portraits. Afterwards, if the self-portrait features one long eyebrow instead of two, one could eliminate all self-portrait-painting artists who did not have a unibrow. Then, one would be left with either a dastardly villain or famous Mexican artist Frida Kahlo. If the painting was any good, one could safely assume that Miss Kahlo was the artist.

Lemony already knew how the process of elimination worked, so the only question he had was, "Who's Bertrand?"

"He's a member of my theater troupe," Beatrice answered with a shrug. "I say we first remove everything with the word 'tiger' in the title or summary."

Unable to for lack of time and unwilling to for lack of spirit, Lemony chose not to ask any more about Bertrand.

After removing books with the words "mathematics" and "sailing", there were only two books left that they could possibly find the message in. The sun was long gone by then, and they (with Mr. Syracuse) were the only people left in Pi's Pages.

"Lemony?" Beatrice said, before even daring to touch the cover of _The Goose Girl_ as retold by Brutus Noble.

"Yes?" Lemony answered before even guessing what the pages of _The Lonesome Lover_ by Brutus Noble contained.

Beatrice took a breath. "R. is my oldest friend," she said. "I've known her even longer than I've known you, my dearest friend."

Lemony's heart leapt at Beatrice naming him dearest, but outwardly he made no sign of it.

"What I'm saying is," Beatrice started again. "No matter what we find here or elsewhere, I am going to do everything in my power to try to save her. And..." At this, she sighed and laid her hand gently on Lemony's arm. "My dear Lemony Snicket, I'm asking if you'll help me as long as you can."

Lemony blinked and swallowed. How could he refuse her? How could he ignore the way just hearing his name from her mouth made him dizzy with adoration? Yet, "Of course," was all he said.

The deal struck, the two delved into (the word "delved" is a word which here means "got busy reading") their books.

It was nearly morning before Beatrice cried, "I have it!" and called Lemony over to help her decipher the code.

The passage read as follows:

" _Every day as the goose girl walked down to feed the geese, she sang her sad tale of woe as the bell on her bucket rang._

 _'I've been so sad since my wicked servant girl so cruelly sent me down to this wretched state. You needn't feel sorry. You needn't cry for me. Some day, I know, I'll sit on the throne beside my true love. For my mother chose a Prince for me. Yet, I drive my wicked servant girl so wild, I fear it will take more pain."_

 _The Prince heard Goose Girl one day and knowing the truth he began to chase her, his heart-bells ringing with love. He caught her, kissed her, and married her the same day and they lived happily ever after."_

"It's an atrocious piece of writing," Lemony said.

"But you recognize the code?" Beatrice asked.

Lemony nodded and counted out the words. "If I'm not mistaken," he said. "It says, 'I've sent you on a wild goose chase'."

They were both silent for a very long while.

"Have you seen Mr. Syracuse?" Beatrice asked finally. "He's not in his chair..."

Slowly, the two looked over the railing to see Mr. Archimedes Syracuse fully awake and aiming a crossbow in their direction. "I wouldn't try anything funny, yungins," he said. Some elderly people have a habit of calling anybody younger than themselves a "yungin." While the term is irritating for two people already in adulthood, it is no more irritating than working a full night with nothing to show for it.

"Mr. Syracuse, I'm surprised at you," Lemony said, sounding more brave than he felt. It seemed to him that if the old man were to fire his crossbow, the arrow would hit Beatrice in a usually fatal spot on her head.

"Who?" The old man laughed. "Oh! The disguise worked, did it? Archimedes Syracuse hasn't been here in months! That is, he hasn't been up front... He's been a little too tied up, I'm afraid."

"Well, who are you then?" Beatrice demanded. Anybody who wasn't looking wouldn't have noticed her tear the first button off of her dress. But Lemony was looking, and he noticed.

The old man smiled cruelly. "I hoped you'd guess! After all, you've been enjoying my book. _The Goose Girl_ always comes in handy when I need someone to waste time."

Beatrice's hands were behind her now, button and all, and she seemed to be crushing it in her fist. "Brutus Noble," Beatrice sneered. "Are you one of those miserable villains behind the plot against my friend?"

"I'd be a fool not to be! We're splitting the Winnipeg fortune only five ways."

Beatrice's hand made a still, tight fist now. Lemony backed away to stay clear of what was to come. "You and who else?" he demanded.

"As if I'd tell!" Brutus growled.

"Then you are of no further use to me," Beatrice said. "And you're a pathetic writer." With that, she leaned over the railing and opened her fist, blowing white powder onto the wretch below like blowing a kiss.

Brutus Noble fell unconscious to the ground almost instantaneously. Beatrice nearly fell to the ground, as well, and would have if Lemony had not caught her by the waist at the last moment. She spun around to face him, her nose nearly bumping into his chin.

"Thank you," she said.

They both stopped a moment, unsure what they were stopping and why they were stopping.

Lemony removed his hands from Beatrice's waist. "Think nothing of it," he instructed.

With a nod, Beatrice turned to look more carefully over the railing. "It's not very strong powder," she admitted. "And it's only enough to fit in a button. We have time to release poor Mr. Syracuse, but I'm afraid that's all we can do here."

"That's alright," Lemony assured her. "I'm sure I have no desire to read anymore about mathematics, sailing, or bengal tigers."

"Lemony, there are four more accomplices besides this one," Beatrice said. "This is voluntary work. You don't have to come."

Lemony looked her seriously in the eyes. "I said I would come, so I will. I promised you, Beatrice."

Beatrice grinned. "Well then... There's no time to waste. We have so much to investigate and so little time to do it."

So, the friends walked downstairs to find Mr. Syracuse, Lemony behind Beatrice, and he smiled at the back of her head all the way down.


	2. Chapter 2

It may be that in your years of living, you have heard the phrase "walking up a blind alley." This phrase has nothing to do with the visually impaired, nor does does it necessarily refer to a gap between two buildings. If you are walking up a blind alley, you have unwittingly, a word which here means "without knowing or wanting to", taken a path, the end of which will be unpleasant.

A prison undertaker who undertakes a prisoner who is alive and plotting an escape is walking up a blind alley. A man who orders pineapple pie from a very fancy diner, unaware that he will soon suffer food poisoning from it is walking up a blind alley. Certainly, as Lemony and Beatrice walked down the open sidewalk determining to work together, they were walking up a blind alley, and I'm afraid they would not know it for quite some time.

"I'll send a message to R. explaining the situation," Beatrice was saying. "She'll have to be wary regarding what she eats, where she goes, and any men that own expensive running shoes but never run."

Lemony furrowed his eyebrows. "You're not going to tell her in person?"

"I doubt it," Beatrice answered. "I rarely go back to a place where there are glasses I've left behind. It's humiliating. Besides, for R.'s safety, I can't make any decisions until I'm not as tired as I am right now."

As anybody knows, when planning to protect someone from a wicked and potentially murderous plot, it is best to get plenty of rest before making important decisions. The sun was already beginning to rise behind the pair, and neither had gotten any sleep. So, Lemony agreed with a nod of his head.

"You know," Lemony began, looking up and down the street. "We aren't far from my home. If you wished to rest there a little while, I'm sure my housemate wouldn't mind."

"Oh, do you mean it, Lemony?" Beatrice asked. "I am figuratively dragged out."

Lemony smiled. "Of course, I mean it. Why on earth would I say something if I didn't mean it?"

A soft laugh escaped from Beatrice's lips, but she grew very quiet once it had ended. Before Lemony could ask what was wrong, she answered his unasked question. "People might talk..." she said, almost in a whisper.

Lemony had never known Beatrice to care one bit if people might talk, yet he didn't say so. It is not polite to dismiss people's concerns, no matter how silly or uncharacteristic those concerns are. "If you would rather not, I will happily walk you to your own home," he offered, though Beatrice's home was, regrettably, significantly far from his own.

Beatrice pondered the offer, smiled, and shook her head. "I think not," she said. "My home is so very far. Besides, I haven't seen your house in years. Has it changed at all?"

"Not terribly much," Lemony answered. "I prefer things to stay the same."

"And so you always have," Beatrice replied as she hooked her arm through Lemony's.

Together they walked to the apartment building in which Lemony claimed residence. Instead of using the front door as one might usually do, they walked up the blind alley to the fire escape.

"Is the front door unusable?" Beatrice questioned.

"No," Lemony answered as he began to climb up. "But the owner of the building thinks that I am dead, and I would prefer to keep it that way."

Without another moment's hesitation, Beatrice followed Lemony up the metal steps to the top floor of the building.

They entered Lemony's home through the sitting room window, Lemony offering Beatrice his hand as she stepped over the windowsill. There a man with dark black hair that seemed ready to leave the top of his head sat, pouring over a messy stack of papers.

"A little past curfew, are we, Snicket?" the man said without looking up.

"As long as you're dead, I don't believe Mrs. Potter minds," Lemony answered. "Beatrice, you remember my housemate Olaf?"

Beatrice nodded and offered Olaf a polite smile. "Of course. We went to school together for a time. Didn't we, Olaf?"

On hearing the woman's voice, Olaf looked up. "Why, Beatrice!" he said. "What a surprise! Just what did he do to get you all the way up here?"

"He asked," Beatrice answered. "I'm only here to use your guestroom to rest a little while, then I'll be on my way."

Olaf shrugged and returned to his work.

Lemony and Beatrice parted ways in the bedroom hallway and met again in the living room only a couple hours later. Olaf was sitting in the same spot, but it was apparent that he had long since given up on the papers he had been reading and had resorted to listening to a radio station.

"Now that we are in our right minds, it is imperative that we conceive a strategy," Beatrice began. "To begin with, I believe it would be unwise for either of us to see R. in person. The conspirators may notice and suspect we are conspiring against them."

Lemony nodded. "But we still ought to inform R. that she is in danger."

"I agree," Beatrice agreed. "I know a baticeer that may be able to get the message out by tonight."

Olaf snorted, which is very rude to do, especially when one is not party to a conversation.

Lemony rolled his eyes slightly before shifting his attention back to the woman in front of him. "Tonight may be too late. It is quite possible that the Winnipeg Castle itself is no longer a safe place for R.."

Beatrice furrowed her eyebrows, a neat wrinkle appearing on her forehead. "I have carrier pigeons at my home, but if the castle is no longer safe, where will we tell R. to go?"

A brief moment passed as Lemony pondered this. "I suppose I could contact my sister and tell her to be ready to receive a guest at her flat."

Before Beatrice could answer, Olaf switched off the radio and stood up from the couch. "You'll ask Kit, will you?" he said. "Do you really believe that she'll want to be a part of another one of your plots?"

"Perhaps not," Lemony admitted. "But I sincerely hope she'll be willing to help her friend, regardless of her affiliation or lack thereof."

Olaf scoffed and was silent a moment. "I won't pretend I haven't been eavesdropping," he said at last. "I may not as well-read as the pair of you, but I'm not always a liar. Especially since, given the circumstances, you wouldn't believe a single lie I told."

"What are you getting to, Olaf?" Beatrice asked.

"I only want to say that I think what you're doing is dangerous, and it's stupid to try to do it on your own. And it's selfish to drag Kit into it." He added the last sentence as though it was an afterthought, though it was clearly no such thing.

Lemony crossed his arms. "I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Oh, use your brain, Snicket," Olaf groaned. "Kit doesn't have the connections she used to. She hasn't been informed of new codes or new enemies. The two of you will be far too busy with your investigation to bother telling her what's going on. She'll be in the dark and in danger the entire time."

Beatrice took her glasses off and sat down on an armchair. "He's right," she admitted. "Perhaps we could find someone willing to be their informant..."

"Who would we find that would be willing?" Lemony asked. "Who could we trust, Beatrice?"

"Jacques," she answered. "Jacques would do it."

"He would if he weren't busy investigating a very flat desert that may not be so flat after all."

Beatrice began to tap her foot. "What about Bertrand? Bertrand would do it if I asked him to."

Lemony swallowed a grimace. "I don't know if my sister would be comfortable taking information from a stranger."

At this, they were all silent, rummaging through mental address books and recruitment lists. Every name was either unavailable or untrustworthy.

"I suppose..." Olaf began slowly. "I could be bothered to look after Kit and R. for a month or two..."

Both Beatrice and Lemony smiled. "Would you?" Beatrice asked. "You haven't a clue how relieved I am to hear that."

"Well, you'll owe me when I have to subject myself to ridiculous things like proper skin care... and scrapbooking... and shopping without any reason to."

"Kit isn't that type of woman," Lemony assured him. "Except when it comes to proper skin care which we should all take part of. Besides, this is only in the case that R. is not safe in her own home and we are required to relocate her."

"Oh, you will be," Olaf said, quirking the left side of his one eyebrow. Quickly, he reached for the cushion of the sofa he had been lounging on and pulled off the cushion with a flourish. From underneath the cushion he retrieved an elegant powder-blue box encrusted with pearls. "You are not the only ones who have been given information about R.. This box contains poisonous darts that an anonymous informant informed me are straight from Winnipeg Castle."

Hearing this, both Beatrice and Lemony simultaneously turned to face each other with horrified expressions.

"I have to send the pigeons as soon as possible," Beatrice said.

Lemony nodded. "And I must contact my sister. You ought to go now. We can meet again for dinner at the park this evening to discuss our plans further. You'll know which one I mean when woman with a peculiar haircut stops you at the entrance to ask why a raven is like a writing desk."

Beatrice smiled. "I know the park, but let's meet at our usual spot for rootbeer floats. I haven't been there since we graduated."

Unable to say anything more, Lemony merely nodded again.

Beatrice began down the fire escape until Olaf said, "Oh, just go out the hall. Mrs. Potter doesn't think _you're_ dead." Then she crossed the room, and went out the door.

The moment the door was shut, Olaf turned to Lemony with a sadistic (a word which here means "very unkind on purpose") glint in his shiny eyes. "So, you're still in love with her?" he asked, though his tone indicated that he wanted to know so that he could make fun of Lemony rather than because he actually cared.

"Yes, I'm still in love with her," Lemony answered, collapsing into the armchair she had just been in. "I haven't stopped loving her since the day I heard her oral report on the history of the sonnet, which was the first time I had either seen or heard her." He saw no point in hiding the fact from anyone - except, of course, Beatrice herself.

"At least you've still got those glasses of hers to moon over," Olaf said, gesturing to the coffee table in front of his housemate.

Lemony stared at the glasses. He had had them for so long, he was used to the sight of them sitting there. But he had returned them. They were hers again, and if she left them now she may never have come back to retrieve them.

Without another word, Lemony snatched up the glasses and sprinted out the door into the hallway he was not supposed to be in. Beatrice was already halfway down the stairs. "Beatrice!" he called.

She turned back to him slightly, with wide, questioning eyes. "Yes?"

Once he reached her, he held out the pair of glasses. "You left these."

"Oh," she nearly whispered. "I'm so silly, always leaving these behind..."

In the brief time that she examined them, Lemony looked around the hallway. He had not been there in at least two years, and Mrs. Potter had replaced the sensible painted walls with the most ghastly rose wallpaper. Yet, somehow, Beatrice made it the crude place look as if it were as beautiful and grand as the Winnipeg Castle just by standing in it.

"I would've come back for these, you know..." Beatrice said, slipping them onto her head.

"You would've?"

Beatrice nodded. "These are a special pair. They were lost for a while and then came back to me. I tend to hold onto things that come back after I think they're gone."

Then Beatrice took a deep breath. "Rootbeer floats. The usual place. I'll see you in a matter of hours."

Lemony nodded and turned back with a small wave in her direction.

There are many unpleasant things about walking up a blind alley. Besides, of course, not knowing when you're in one and the horrible things at the end, walking up a blind alley is often made more unbearable by the fact that it starts off so wonderfully that you can hardly believe there is any such thing as a blind alley at all.

Though Olaf may have thought that by agreeing to guard Kit Snicket he might have been walking up a blind alley that would end in two perfectly normal hobbies that he disliked such as scrapbooking or shopping, I regret to inform you that he was indeed walking up a blind alley, but this alley started wonderfully and ended more miserably than he could've imagined.

As I have already mentioned, Lemony Snicket and Beatrice were walking side-by-side up a blind alley, and though it had barely begun, the ending grew closer with every step. Once again, I regret to inform you that the ending of their alley was quite terrible, and I regret to inform you that it made the beginning all the more wonderful.


	3. Chapter 3

As Olaf approached the steps of Kit Snicket's home, his heart began to beat like a drum. His head pounded - also like a drum - with an uncomfortable combination of anxiety and anticipation.

He looked up and around at the two stories that sat upon the red, brick foundation of the house. The last time he had seen the woman who lived there face-to-face was on a large cruise liner at a meeting for their secret organization. There she had renounced her association with VFD, stolen a lifeboat, and rowed all the way back to shore. To stand at her front door gave Olaf a myriad of mixed feelings.

Yet, no matter how mixed or unmixed his feelings were, Olaf had to push them aside. After all, he had a job to do. Taking a deep breath, he squeezed the handle of his suitcase, adjusted his hat, and rapped his knuckles against the red-painted wood of the door.

It was R. who answered. She looked just like Olaf remembered her. Her hair and skin were natural colors, and her mouth and chin were situated under the nose which was in the middle of her face. Her intelligent, human eyes narrowed when she saw him. "O..." she said as a way of greeting.

"R..." he replied no more enthusiastically.

R. opened the door to allow Olaf in. "K. is in the kitchen preparing raspberry scones," she said. "L. and B. didn't tell me they were sending you."

Olaf rolled his eyes. "Oh, why don't you just use people's real names, R-"

"Really, Olaf, you ought to know that I don't go by that name anymore. People call me Jacqueline now."

A short laugh escaped him. "And where did you pull that name from?"

Before Jacqueline could answer, a familiar voice came from the kitchen doorway. "Olaf," For the first time in multiple years, Olaf saw Kit Snicket face-to-face.

Olaf removed his hat. "Hello, hello, hello, Miss Snicket."

With no visible reaction, Kit continued,"Lemony sent word that he was sending someone by. I assumed he meant Jacques."

Unsure what else to do, Olaf dropped his suitcase on the floor, removed his hat, and said, "Well, don't act so disappointed."

"The only thing I'm disappointed about is getting mixed up in this whole affair," Kit answered. Silence followed for only a brief moment. "It's been a long time."

"Has it been? I haven't noticed," Olaf lied.

R. folded her arms over her chest. "Just how long do you suppose you'll be staying?" she questioned.

Olaf folded his hands behind his back. "As long as your highness is in danger, I suppose. Believe me, I'm looking forward to it just as much as you are."

Kit cleared her throat, not out of necessity, but rather because the conversation was making her rather uncomfortable. "R., why don't you check on the raspberry scones... Olaf, I'll show you to your room, if you like."

With a shrug, Olaf picked his suitcase back up and followed Kit up the mahogany stairs. Her shoulders were tense, he noted, and her hand gripped the railing until her knuckles were white.

At the top of the steps, Kit marched into the bedroom hallway and opened a door. "This is where you'll stay," she said.

"Thanks," Olaf said as he shouldered his way into the room. He dropped his suitcase on the bed with no consideration for the mattress and pulled a cigarette pack out of his suit pocket.

Kit was still in the doorway, staring at him with an unfathomable expression.

"She doesn't like me, you know," Olaf said as he lit the cigarette in his mouth. "R., I mean."

Kit's stance didn't shift an inch. "Have you given her much cause to?" she responded.

"Not really," Olaf admitted. "Then again, she was always sort of a snob. Never understood how the two of you got along."

Kit's right eye twitched. "Common enemies," she answered simply.

Olaf hesitated. Then, he laughed a bitter laugh and puffed his cigarette. "I forgot how much fun you were, Snicket." With that, he held out his cigarette pack to her.

"No, thank you," she said. "I quit smoking."

"Did you? When?"

With a slight shrug, Kit answered, "A month or two ago."

"You quit cold turkey?" Olaf questioned using a phrase which here means "stop suddenly and abruptly like a turkey that has been shot."

"I suppose you might say that," Kit replied.

Olaf quirked one half of his eyebrow. "And how is that going?" he pressed.

With a sigh, Kit reached for the cigarette pack. "Miserably," she groaned. Once the cigarette was lit, she sat on the bed near Olaf's suitcase, and Olaf followed suit (in this case, on the opposite side of the suitcase.)

"So, what exactly is your plan now that you're our chief of security?" Kit questioned.

Olaf shook his head, "I'm hardly chief of security. I'm only here to keep you informed of the situation and help you recognize the new codes. Think of me as your reintroduction into VFD."

At those words, the hardened look in Kit's eyes returned. She stood abruptly and extinguished the cigarette in a dish on the nightstand. "Thanks, but I'd prefer not to." Without another word, she began to walk away.

Before she could, however, Olaf jumped up and caught her by the arm. "Hold on, Snicket. What's the matter now?"

Kit pulled away. "Let go. I don't have to tell you anything."

"Well, you're right about that. You don't have to tell me that something's bothering you. In fact, you don't even have to tell me that it's me that's bothering you. I'm no fool; I can figure it out on my own."

"Then what is it you want me to say?" Kit said as she folded her arms over her chest.

Olaf rolled his eyes upward in thought. "Well, you could tell me if I'm bothering you because I'm part of an organization you've cut ties with or..."

"Or?" Kit pressed after a brief silence.

A grin spread over Olaf's face. "Or if it's just that I'm so devastatingly handsome you can't think straight."

Kit's arms dropped to her sides. "Alright," she sighed. "Listen. VFD stole my whole life away from me. I have been in danger for as long as I can remember and brainwashed to think that was normal. My brothers and I have been robbed of the chance to be a normal family, and I don't even remember my parents. So, yes, it does bother me a little that you're a part of that. After all, I barely know you, and I don't trust you at all. I have worked very hard to remove myself from VFD, and you're one misstep from ruining everything. So forgive me if I'm a little on edge. Could you _please_ stop breathing smoke in my face?"

With a shrug, Olaf dropped his cigarette on the carpet and stamped it out with his boot.

Kit stood in silence as she stared at the ground. Eventually, she rolled her eyes and left the room muttering, "How did Lemony ever live with you..."

"I was just thinking the same thing!" Olaf called after her, but she wasn't listening.

With nothing else to do, Olaf collapsed on the bed, slung his legs over his suitcase, placed his hat over his eyes, and tried to stop thinking. That Snicket girl was just as impossible as he remembered. But he didn't want to remember at all. All he wanted was to put everything out of his mind and sleep a little while he could...


End file.
